Lord Scarlet’s Curse

Posted: November 25, 2013 by writingsprint in Fantasy
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

"Red Sword" by Neneza at DeviantArt.com

“Red Sword” by Neneza at DeviantArt.com

Lord Scarlet faced the masked man. The man’s calm enraged him.

“I warn you one last time, Red Lord. This will not end well for you.”

“Die, scoundrel!”

Bloody rage filled Lord Scarlet’s eyes. He lashed out, striking with his sword, and promptly had his arm cut off by his much calmer foe.

Lord Scarlet dropped to the ground. His arm didn’t fall off as much as a it turned to snowflakes and vanished as the it hit the ground. He felt numb all over his body. The warrior said to him, “A more humane form of steel. As effective, and less painful.”

“Are you going to cut my head off painlessly now, too?”

“I could, but why would I? You’re no harm now. Not to anyone.” He kicked away Lord Scarlet’s sword. The masked man’s squire gathered it up. “I know you still have one good arm. I don’t want you to be tempted.”

“I’ll learn to fight one-handed. We’ll meet again, you cur.”

The warrior shook his head. “You reach for my life. I take half of your arm. Some would consider that more than a fair exchange, young man. Next time I may take your other arm, your leg, or if I slip, maybe even your head. Is your glory worth that much to you?”

Scarlet spat on him. The warrior wiped it off. “Babies spit. You have much to learn, young man, and a short life to learn it in if you continue the way you are.”

He had killed dozens of men. People had trembled before him. Warriors had laid down their weapons at his feet. The great Lord Scarlet had decorated the walls of his castle with their heads! And this man of peace treated him like a butterfly. An amusing, fragile insect.

“Tell me your name,” Scarlet said.

“Why?”

He sat up on the ground. He still couldn’t feel his body, so he didn’t trust himself to stand. “So that one day I can find you, and challenge you to another duel.”

“My name is Scarlet.”

Scarlet gaped as the warrior drew back the scarf across his face. He bore the same scar across his nose, only the years hid it behind wrinkles and lines of contemplation and sorrow. The older man took off the glove he wore on his right hand, revealing one made of bronze, that moved like a real one.

“Learn humility, this time, and perhaps when you grow to be my age, I won’t need to take my hand from myself again.”

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